


Where the Line Begins

by BytheDocksofBrooklyn



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 1930s, 1930s Brooklyn, 1940s, A stucky slice of life, Betrayal, Bisexual Male Character, Boyfriends, Brooklyn, Bucky Barnes - Freeform, Crushes, Crushing, Cute things, Domestic Fluff, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Flirting, First Kiss, First Love, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, High School, Hospitals, Light Angst, M/M, Male Slash, Mutual Pining, New York, Other, POV Male Character, Pining, Pre-Serum, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sexual Frustration, Sexuality, Sharing a Bed, Slice of Life, Steve Rogers Feels, Stucky - Freeform, brooklyn 1940s, bucky barnes plays the field, bucky brings home a boy, cooking together, hero bucky barnes, lol this is stucky of course its cute, makeout, steve catches the feels, winteriron
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-10-21 02:25:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17634257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BytheDocksofBrooklyn/pseuds/BytheDocksofBrooklyn
Summary: Steven Grant Rogers. Talented. Moral. A bit of a loner.James Buchanan Barnes. Witty. Handsome. A hell of a friend.Two boys inside of Brooklyn's city limits make discoveries about love, loss, and sexuality as they tackle the hardships and drama that life in the late 1930s has to offer them.





	1. Chapter 1

“Hey, ma,” Steven whispered, leaning down to kiss the blonde silk hair of the woman tucked into a hospital bed. He slowly took a seat on the edge of the bed and tucked his legs up beneath him. His thin fingers found hers and laced themselves with them, his pinky finger turning the thin golden wedding band on her ring finger. She hummed softly and with a tired smile, reaching up to brush his dirty blond bangs back and off of his forehead. She was gentle. An absolute angel in every way. 

“How was school, baby?” she asked, shifting softly to prop up on an elbow, facing him. He shrugged halfheartedly, a melancholy moodiness weaving its way into his expression. 

“It was alright, I guess,” he offered honestly, hoping not to have to explain more. But he knew she would ask. 

“Made any friends yet...?” her voice was weak and she slowly lowered herself back onto the bed, too tired to hold herself up the entire conversation. Steve looked over, her blue eyes reflective of his own. There wasn’t much of Steve’s appearance he hadn’t gotten from her. He smiled, a bit forcedly, and brushed his fingers along the soft and pale curve of her face. 

“Not yet. But I don’t mind, much.” 

She sighed softly and shook her head at him, giving his hand a squeeze. 

“One day someone will see all of the good in you, baby. Someone’s going to get a taste of that sweet personality you got from your daddy and they’re going to know they’ve got a real treasure on their hands. When they come along, you be loyal to them, baby.” 

Steve nodded. He wanted to tell her he’d gotten all of his good manners from her, not his dad, but he knew she liked to talk about him, and crediting him with some of Steve’s best characteristics made her feel better. Like they had both had a chance to raise him. He opened his mouth to speak, but a sweet African American nurse peeked her head in to remind him of the time. 

“It’s getting late, Steven. We can take care of your ma here, suga’. Go on home and get some sleep.” 

He nodded, standing and gathering his coat, pulling it over his small frame. It was about three sizes too big for him. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you for watchin’ over her. You’ll send someone over if she starts feeling bad?” His voice was laced with worry. She smiled, eyes crinkling the way older women’s do. 

“Home, Steven,” she emphasized again. “Your ma will be just fine. You gonna stop by again before school in the mornin’?” 

By now they had grown familiar with his routines, and even before that they were well acquainted with both him and his mom due to the many hospital trips they had made over the years. He looked over to his mom, who was fast asleep, and zipped up the coat. 

“Yeah, I’ll be here.” 

And with that he slipped out of the door, hands in his pockets, and jogged down the flight of stairs to try and make the journey home before dark.


	2. Chapter 2

Steve shook his hair out under the barely dripping faucet and grabbed a towel off the back of the water heater. He didn’t know why they even had one---it didn’t seem to do its job very well this morning or any morning, either. His back was bare and he quickly dried off his hair before wrapping the damp towel around his shoulders. He could see his breath in the mirror when he exhaled. It was an ungodly kind of cold, and the house felt extremely empty without the ever-warming presence of his mother, who kept the stove on and the bed warm. He slung the towel over the edge of the tub, which he hardly used anymore, unless the warmed the water on the stove first. He took his time buttoning up his white dress-shirt and pulling his legs through his khaki slacks. The width of the legs doubled his, hanging loose around his ankles and falling over the tops of his shoes, but it was the best he could do for the time being. He brushed his hair over to the left, the way it fell naturally when parted, and snatched up his schoolbag on his way out the door. 

The walk to school wasn’t anything special, but was cold, and his mom would have absolutely fussed at the fact he wasn’t wearing socks today. He hadn’t been able to get over to a laundromat, though, between his classes and the hospital visits, and every pair of socks he had were either damp or dirty to the point of being brown on the soles. He tucked his nose into the collar of his jacket and exhaled, warming up the skin around his collarbone and shoulders. He turned a corner without looking up, having the route memorized by heart, and ran slam into the back of a rather broad figure. He stumbled backward, gathering his bearings as he noticed it wasn’t a single figure he had run into, but rather a group of three guys lingering in the alleyway for a smoke. They looked to be his age---maybe a little older---he could never estimate age very well, seeing how nearly everyone was bigger than him, older or not. The one he had run into, who was at least a foot taller with a cig hanging out of the corner of his mouth, laughed. 

“Who are you??? You a’ eighth grader or somethin’?” He gave Steve a once-over and his eyes settled on the smaller guy’s feet. He laughed. One of those short, obnoxiously loud bursts that sounded something like a “hee!” 

“Awh, looky here, boys, we’ve got ourselves a street rat. Those shoes ain’t yours; you wearin’ ya pop’s gear? Those shoes are what....at least three sizes too big for you?” He took a giant lunge forward and planted his heel directly on the toe of Steve’s shoe. The leather folded under the weight, a soft crunch of balled up newspaper sounding beneath the guy’s boot. Steve was flushing, his eyes settled on their feet. It was true; the shoes had been his dad’s and they were much too big, but with enough newspaper stuffed in the soles he had managed to recycle them. He stood there, knowing he wouldn’t be able to pull his shoe out from under the guy’s weight. The loiterer leaned over him and blew a cloud of smoke into his face, which not only made his eyes water, but began to restrict his airway as an asthma attack was triggered by the smoke. He sucked in a deep breath, trying not to panic as his breaths shortened. It would have been clear to anyone with a brain what was happening, but the alleyway punk and his two cronies just laughed and slowly closed in on him just to see how much he could take before he would pass out cold in the dim and damp Brooklyn back-alley. 

The sound of heavy footfall on wet dirt sounded somewhere ahead of Steve, but between the clouding smoke and the three muscular bodies that lingered in front of him, it was impossible to tell what other party was about to join the debacle. 

“Hey!” a young but mature male voice barked at the crew, getting louder with every shout. 

“Whatsa matter wi’ you! You think you’re better than him?” the tallest of the bullies was yanked backwards and away from Steven by the collar of his shirt. A lean but broad-shouldered young man in a WWI army coat over a white T was staring him down, the two now face to face. Steve slowly backed against the wall, which was only about a half a step behind him, and watched the stranger slowly swagger forward until his nose was pressed firmly against the troublemaker’s. He growled again, lower but firmer this time. 

“I said, you think you’re better than him?” One of the hands at his side was lifted slightly and pointed in Steven’s directly. The delinquent blew a cloud of smoke into the gentleman’s face, just as he had done with Steve, and not a second later the broader man threw a swing that put him on the ground, mud staining the seat of his pants. He scrambled to get back up to his feet but was pushed backward once more before he could even stand himself upright. His back hit bricks, the cigarette no longer between his teeth, but lying fizzled in the mud at their feet. The interloper, whom Steve was really beginning to grow interested in, smirked and turned around to face the remaining two guys, arms spread in an invitation to come at him. Neither of them dared move. 

“That’s what I thought. Now get outta here.” 

Neither of them made a move and he raised his voice, taking a threatening stride toward them. “Didn’ you hear me?! I said get outta here!” 

The two scrambled out of the alley, dragging their incapacitated friend----who had ended up with a likely broken, but at the very least bloody, nose----behind them. Steve looked up at the guy, who was shaking his wrist out, and cleared his throat. 

“Hey..uh..thanks.” 

He meant it. The guy looked up from his bruising knuckles and took the kid in. His eyes lingered for a moment, processing the physical makeup of the guy he had just saved. He met Steve’s eyes, his expression unreadable. Air clouded as breaths passed over his lips. 

“You okay...?” 

Steve tried to get the words out, his chest still incredibly sore, and ended up with a shaky exhale and a “yeah” that cracked when it came out. The guy closed the space in between them to make the exchange feel a bit more personal. 

“Where are you headed?” His voice was softer. “School?” 

Steve cleared his throat, closing his eyes tight as he tried to ignore the stabbing behind his sternum. 

“Uh, yeah. Washington.” 

He was attending his senior year there. The young man exhaled slowly. 

“Classes have already started, by now. Trust me, I’d know,” he mumbled. “Are you sure you wanna keep in that direction...? You don’t look like the skippin’ type, but I can walk you back to your place if you wanna compose yourself for a minute.” 

Steve had a quick response formulated, gathering his jacket around him better, hands tucked in the pockets. “This happens a lot; It's fine. I just-” he swayed on his feet a bit, heart pounding in his chest. Everything behind his ribcage hurt, and his head wasn’t much better, either. He had a history of heart palpitations and high blood pressure, both of which occurred in any mildly stress-inducing situation. A hand reached out to steady him. 

“Look, no pressure, tough guy, I just wan’ed to make sure you’re alright.” He was gentle. Steve closed his eyes. A murmur passed over his lips as it dawned on him. 

“I was supposed to go see my ma...” 

He had completely forgotten. The hand dropped from his shoulder. 

“Your parents divorced?” the guy asked, wondering where his ma was that required leaving his own house to go visit her. Steve sucked in a deep breath and blinked his eyes open, looking up at the taller man. 

“No. I told them I’d be by in the morning when I left last night.” 

The question still lingered. Where was she, then? 

“Why don’t we go pay her a visit, then?” he asked instead of pressing for the answer to the question of where, chipper at the suggestion as if he had come up with an absolutely irrefutable and ingenius idea. Steve quirked an eyebrow upward. 

“Um...” he thought about it. “Sure, I guess...” 

The guy slung his arm around Steve’s shoulders as Steve began walking them in the right direction, back the way he had come. He dipped his chin down and tucked his nose inside the collar of his jacket once more. The warm, damp air trapped between his skin and the jacket’s inner lining was easy on his lungs. The warmth at his side was also an unfamiliar but much welcomed feeling. They walked quietly, though Steven wondered if his new potential ally ever planned on introducing himself or not. He leaned into the taller man’s side, seeking the warmth. The guy stopped abruptly, looking down at Steven with a light concern in his eyes. 

“Do you want my jacket?” 

Steve looked up. He wasn’t wearing much beneath the WWI coat besides a thin white shirt, it looked like. He shook his head decidedly, but the coat was already being pulled off of its broad shoulders. An outstretched hand held it to him. 

“I have two little sisters. An’ a brother. Blame it on them, but I can’t seem ta convince myself you don’t need it. It’s in the teens today. You’re hardly bigger than a bean-pole. Put it on; I’ll be fine without it.” He rolled his shoulders a bit, loosening them up in the crispy outdoor air. Steve stared at him for a minute, not sure if it would be more morally questionable to let him go without it or to decline the generous offer. He nodded after a moment and slipped the big army green jacket on over his own tan suede one. This time he purposely leaned into the good Samaritan's side again as they began to walk, lending him back some of the warmth he had so willingly forfeited. One arm slowly wrapped itself back around his shoulders as they made the last two blocks to the hospital’s visitor’s entry.


	3. Chapter 3

Soft breaths left his mouth, clouding the air in front of him. His arms were covered in goosebumps. He turned to look down at the little blond in his jacket. 

“The hospital, eh?” His voice was soft. The blond looked up, being significantly shorter than he, and shrugged, turning to pull open the heavy double doors. The young man ducked his head and followed the little blond in. A lady at the front desk looked up from her paperwork and smiled at them. 

“Good morning, Steven,” her voice was sugary and light. She had short blond hair that curled around her jaw, a look very much left over from the 20s, and splotchy windburned cheeks. But she was cute. Steven, the blond, he guessed, walked over to the window and set his palms flat on the counter. 

“Yes, ma’am. Is ma still here?” he asked, his silky blond hair falling over his forehead. Sometimes she left for tests in the next wing over. The receptionist flipped through some papers on a clip, humming as she did so. 

“I do believe. We were expecting you in a little earlier than this, but that’s alright. She should be up and ready for the day. Breakfast is about now, if you don’t mind joinin’ her while she eats, is all.” Her eyes lifted to meet the taller brunette in the short-sleeved white T. There was hesitation in her voice. “Is he with you...?” she asked softly, eyes never leaving his strong jawline and lightly cleft chin. Steve looked over his shoulder, throwing his new pal a glance. 

“Yeah, I hope that’s okay. Can ‘e come up with me?” he asked, not wanting to make trouble for the staff, but also not wanting to abandon the man downstairs without his jacket. He was standing at the doorway behind them, hands shoved in the pockets of his pants, waiting for them to make their decision about him. She consented, and Steven exhaled a breath of relief. “Thank you.” 

He turned to the brunette boy and nodded for him to follow as Steve pulled open the second set of double doors and started up the flight of stairs to his ma’s room. The other joined him. 

“I didn’t mean to intrude. I can go home, now that you’ve gotten here okay, if you want.” He looked down at the steps as he took them one by one upward. Steve shook his head. Let out a soft breath. 

“No, ma’ll be glad I brought a friend. She thinks I spend too much time alone as it is.” He jerked his head to the side a bit, flipping the blond hair off of his forehead. It seemed like a good enough answer, the brunette thought, coming to a halt as Steven stopped outside of a room labelled 241. He stayed quiet, watching as the thin-framed boy pushed the door open and knocked lightly on the wall just inside the doorframe. 

“Knock, knock... She awake?” he asked softly with the sweetest grin, heading over to the bedside of a beautiful blond woman who was taking her breakfast, a tray balanced in her lap. The brunette slowly followed him in. She chatted with Steve for a bit, pulling him down to kiss his forehead, before looking up, blue eyes catching the light as they caught sight of the second visitor. There was a glow about her. 

“Stevie, baby, who is this?” she asked softly, blue eyes glued on the stranger’s sharp and handsome features. She guessed he must’ve been about her boy’s age, maybe just a little older. But he was already growing into a fine young man, with dark hair and grey-blue eyes. The white shirt didn’t quite hug his figure, but it did cling to the breadth of his shoulders. Steve looked up, faltering at the question. He cleared his throat, too ashamed to admit that he didn’t even know. Before he could open his mouth to really give a suitable answer, the young man took long strides over to the bedside and swept up one of Sarah Roger’s soft white hands. He smiled. 

“James Barnes, ma’am. But you can call me Bucky. It’s short for Buchanan. My folks like that name,” he explained, seating himself on the edge of the bed. Sarah Rogers seemed completely beside herself, taken with the handsome new stranger. Finally. Her son had a friend. Her eyes crinkled. 

“Bucky...” she tried it out on her tongue. “Say, ‘s that your coat ‘round my boy’s shoulders, there?” she asked, voice soft and light. Steve stood off to the side, shifting a bit on the worn soles of his hand-me-down shoes. He had his hands in the deep green pockets of the army coat. The young Barnes boy nodded. 

“Yes’m. It’s cold outside, today,” he offered as an explanation for the gesture. She patted his hand, a soft hum buzzing somewhere in the middle of her throat. 

“Well, he’s very grateful for it.” 

Bucky’s eyes crinkled a bit in the corners. He was charming, his Brooklyn accent slow and soft in her warm and fragile presence. He glanced up at Steven, nodding. “I know, Mrs.” 

Steve pulled up a chair that sat in the corner of the room and planted it directly at the side of his mother’s bed. He wasn’t jealous, per se, at the fact that James had taken his spot on the mattress next to his mum. It attested to his character, the warm respect he showed to her despite knowing little of their life or current circumstance. Sarah spoke to him in tired, hushed tones, having moved her breakfast tray onto the bedside table so her sleeves wouldn’t get in the way. She asked James about his family, and about other relevant things, like if his father had fought in the first World War. James----or Bucky, as he insisted on being called----answered her questions politely. He came from a big family that was more well-off than not, considering they were coming out of the dregs of the Great Depression. He worked at the docks on the weekends when he wasn’t in school---the same school Steve attended, he was surprised to learn---and was a champion boxer for his weight division. Steve listened to him talk of these things with interest, wondering how someone with such a long list of accomplishments had time to stick up for the little guys like him. 

Bucky’s low and warming voice was in great contrast to his mother’s lightly sugared one, and as the two of them chatted about life and work and the war, Steve found the mingling of their voices lulled him to sleep in the bedside chair. His chest rose and fell lightly, the outline of his ribs only hidden by his three layers of clothing, and the silky blond strands of hair that fell across his face made him look strikingly innocent, for someone his age. At seventeen, Steven Grant Rogers was, in fact, more than most boys would ever be. His hands clutched fistfuls of the inner lining of Bucky’s army coat and the heels of his shoes rested lightly on the hospital’s tiled floor, toes pointed in the air as his legs sprawled. 

 

*** 

The sun had moved past the high point and now shone through the hospital window, illuminating the chair Steve had fallen asleep on, and in the process was streaming directly into his closed eyes. As he registered the light behind his eyelids he blinked them open slowly and squinted into the light. The room was warm and light dust particles floated through the air where the sunlight beamed through. The lights were off. They hadn’t been off when he’d fallen asleep, but they were now. The only light in the room was golden natural. He pulled himself up to sit flat on his buttock, rather than slumped against his mid-to-low back, and inhaled deeply. Sarah Rogers was turned onto her side, facing him, one hand propped beneath her cheek in the middle of her pillow as she dozed peacefully, her bosom rising and falling at gentle and rhythmic pace. His eyes followed the curve of her body down to the bend in her knee. Her legs were pulled up, leaving plenty of space between the tips of her toes and the foot of the bed. 

That’s where the other body was. James Buchanan Barnes was curled up against the soft pink bedding at the foot of his mother’s bed, knees lightly bent, one wrist hanging over the far side of the bed. Steve just stared at him for a while. He seemed much less mature now and slightly more vulnerable. While he was indeed much bigger than Steve himself, he couldn’t have been much older. Eighteen, if he had to guess. Nineteen, at the very most. The largest mystery to Steve, though, wasn’t how old he was, or even why he was asleep at the foot of his mother’s bed, but instead why he was even still with them at all. Any other lady or gent would have paid their visits and then quietly slipped away once the two had safely fallen into a peaceful sleep. But he hadn’t. 

Steve leaned forward, both elbows on his knees, and rested his face in his palms. Despite being warm enough, drowned in the two oversized coats, his fingers were cold against his skin. He rubbed the sleep away from his eyes, pushing the pain that had settled deep in his bones to the back of his mind. He knew there was a chance he was getting sick again, but he didn’t have the time or the money to pay mind to the possibility. He lifted his head from his hands, bangs falling loose in front of his eyes, and traced the sunlight with his gaze. His canvas satchel sat against the front leg of his chair and he slowly, so as not to wake either of his company from their slumber, reached down and pushed the flap back to pull a sketchbook from within. 

He thumbed the front cover open. A pencil sat tucked between the first set of empty pages, and he picked the thin wooden utensil in his hand, lightly tapping it against the inside of his middle finger as he considered the subject material for his newest piece of art. 

He looked up. 

And he slowly began to outline the soft curves of James’ face.


	4. Chapter 4

Bucky looked up the flight of rickety iron stairs to the second-story apartment. 

“You know....my place is only a few blocks down from here.” 

Steve looked from his front door over to James. 

“Do your folks know you skip school?” 

Bucky laughed. “Are you kidding me? No way. My ma’s a schoolteacher down at the primary schools. She’s real big on education...” he drawled off. “I’m a good student, though,” he added quickly, as if obligated to clarify. “I don’t normally skip. I just think sometimes....sometimes it’s healthy to get away, for a day.” His hands were shoved deep in his pockets. He rocked on the balls of his feet. Steve nodded. 

“Well.... do you wanna come in?” 

James looked up. 

“Oh, Steven, no-” 

“Steve,” the blond corrected him. No one really called him Steven. Maybe his mom, on a rare occasion, or the hospital staff, maybe. Bucky turned to look at him. 

“Steve....” he tried it out on his tongue. “Thanks, but I really don’t want to bother...” His eyes trailed back up the metal stairway. Steve, cozy underneath the three layers, followed the staircase as well, a bit reluctant to part with the heavy green coat he’d been loaned. He nodded for the taller brunette to follow and started his way up the stairs. 

“C’mon, Buck,” he murmured, his footfall light on each step. He registered a second too late that he had shortened the boy’s nickname on accident but was even more embarrassed that it happened the very first time he’d ever spoken his name at all. James was grinning. 

“”Buck”,” he repeated, trying it out. “Not even my ma’s used that one before,” he commented. Steven’s face was beat red inside his collar. He didn’t say anything, only huffed to himself and buried his nose deeper inside the jacket as he got to the front door and kicked the placemat out of the way. He bent to pick up the key. 

“Is that really the best you can do? I’m not saying you’ll get robbed if you keep it under there, but crazy people do crazy things, Steve.” 

“Like let strangers into their house?” he muttered, turning the key in the lock before pushing the door open. Bucky frowned. 

“I told you I didn’ wan’ any trouble. I can go on home, you know,” he murmured, the naturally upturned corners of his mouth pulling downward instead. Steve left the door open for him and he scuffed the soles of his shoes on the doormat before following the little blond in. It was a modest home. The lights were off, but a window on the east wall let some natural sunlight in. The floors were wooden---definitely a few decades old, though. Bucky knew Brooklynites didn’t have the option of discriminating, though. Any home was a good home. The furniture was an army green, diner tiles in the small kitchen that the livingroom opened into. It wasn’t shabby, per se, but it was poor. Homely nonetheless, though. Despite the fact no heaters were running, the apartment was significantly warmer than the winter air outside. The stiffness in his shoulders melted away. He drew in a deep breath and let his eyes follow a plank in the floor until they met hand-me-down brown shoes and ran up the loose pantleg of Steve’s khaki slacks. 

He looked warm, all bundled up like that, in three layers at least. Buck exhaled. 

“Thanks for letting me in.” He fell backward onto the sofa, arms draped across the high back. His legs sprawled. “Say, do they know when your mom’s comin’ home or anything?” he exhaled a warm breath and looked around the room. Some framed charcoal and pencil drawings spotted different portions of the wall. He squinted to try to make out the signature in the bottom right corners, but they were too far away to read. And in cursive. He was smart, but cursive always just made his head hurt. Steven’s lips twitched. 

“No.” 

His voice was quiet, at that. Not a whisper, but something a little hesitant. Bucky read between the lines. Maybe she wasn’t going to get to come home. Buck thought a moment, the air around them thick, before his face lit up and he tapped his wrist against the back of the couch. 

“Hey, like I said I don’t wan’ ta intrude or anythin, but hows ‘bout we crash here tonight and in the mornin we can go past the docks down by my work and there’s this real nice Venetian guy that sells flowers from 10 to 2 every afternoon. He’s got some real pretty ones. The pinks and yellows are my favorite. We could easily get some for a couple dimes an’ then we could take ‘em over to your mom. A nice lil surprise.” 

He backpedaled a moment. “Unless she doesn’ like you havin’ people over. I didn’t mean to invite myself to stay, seein’ as we barely met, I jus’ had figured it was the most convenient option for the idea I had.” 

Steve collapsed into a maroon armchair across the room, toes pointing upward, heels planted on the floor. His hands were in the army coat’s pockets. 

“How do I know you won’t kill me in my sleep?” he joked, the humor subtle but definitely there. Almost nothing gave it away aside from the very light upturn of his mouth. For someone small as he was, his voice was low and warm. Bucky smirked, wagging a finger at him. 

“You see, ya wouldn’t. You’ve just gotta trust me, Steve.” 

The blond scoffed lightly and tipped his head back against the back of the chair. 

“You know, you don’t have to do the whole charity act thing with me,” he murmured, voice a bit melancholic this time, eyes on the ceiling. “I know I’m not real big for my age. And I’ve got a long medical history, but. I’m just like any other guy. I don’t need someone standin’ up for me... Not even in the alleys. I don’t like to fight, but I wouldn’a let them walk all over me, anyway.” 

Bucky swallowed. He hadn’t thought of Steven as a pity project. Not even once. He decided to defend his case. At least a little bit. 

“Well, three against one isn’t exactly a fair fight no matter how you look at it.” 

Steve lifted his head. Studied him a bit. 

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Buck.” He let the nickname roll freely off his tongue this time and he was surprised to find that it released some of the tension in his shoulders to do so. Bucky scoffed. It sounded like playful banter. The kid had balls; he couldn’t deny he admired that. A thought popped into his head. 

“Say, you ever had Chicken Parmigiana?”


	5. Chapter 5

The two stumbled back through the apartment door, both carrying brown paper grocery bags full to the brim of produce and food stuffs. Steven was still starstruck at just how much they had to call theirs, all thanks to this mysterious, paradox of a boy that called himself Bucky Barnes. There hadn’t been so much food in the apartment at one time since.... he could remember. But they each had a bag under both arms and they were laughing. Bucky had tears in his eyes, lightly upturned lips pulled back to show white teeth, which was such a pleasant sight. Between hospital visits and the cold loneliness of an empty apartment when his ma wasn’t home, Steven rarely saw a smile. They tripped over the welcome mat and into the house. Steve led him into the kitchen and set both bags on the counter. Bucky followed suit before leaning against the dull white surface, his head buried in his arms, catching his breath as his laughter died down. The little blond chuckled. 

“It wasn’t even that funny,” he tried, but at the same time his chest was warm and his own eyes crinkled just a tad in the corners, the tail end of laughter leaving his lips as he spoke. Bucky looked up from his arms and laughed, grinning over at Steve. 

“You’re a damn lie, Rogers.” He straightened up, putting his hands on his hips, sucking in a breath to compose himself. He stood erect, with the posture of a dancer. “It was funny and you know it.” 

Steve consented, arms crossing over his body. His ribs hurt not only from carrying the heavy bags, but from the laughter, as well. Bucky was surveying the groceries. “We should probably start on dinner. The chicken won’t stay fresh if we keep it out all the live-longed day.” 

He rifled around in one of the bags and pulled out a few cuts of breast wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. Steve pulled up a chair from the round kitchen table and took a seat to spectate. He propped his chin atop his arms, folded across the countertops, as Bucky took a knife from the kitchen drawer, which he found upon Steve directing him, and snipped the twine. He made precise cuts down the middle of each breast, flaying them and laying them flat atop the brown paper. He worked his palms into them, muscles flexing as he worked them tender. Not that they would be tough when cooked in the first place, but it was all part of the routine. Why not, he figured, make a 5-star meal for his new friend if he had the knowledge and opportunity to do so? He prepped the meat and washed his hands, using a rag as he lathered, too, Steve noted, and got out a shallow glass dish. He delved into the other two bags and produced onions, garlic, tomatoes, and a half a loaf of bread from within. The tomatoes were grown in a protected place, the vendor had told him, where they were safe from the winter. 

There was a bottle of wine hidden in the bottom of one of the bags, too. They had stolen glances at each other at the prospect of how exciting it was to get their hands on a bottle. But Bucky had connections. He turned to Steve, a smile on his face. 

“You’re really not going to help me?” 

Steve flushed and shrunk down a bit, and Bucky’s mouth turned up in a smirk. “I’m joking; it’s my treat. But seriously, I don’t know where the pots are.” His face was dead serious, and Steve rolled his eyes and stood on the chair, which he was embarrassed to do, in order to reach a medium saucepan from the middle shelf of the above cabinets. Medium was the only size they had. 

Bucky gave him careful instructions, now, as he pulled the oven open and set the half a loaf of bread, now in the glass pan, inside. It had been sliced into five or six thinner pieces. He turned the oven on, and the stove. 

“We’ll cut the tomatoes, first. And chop the onion and crush the garlic. For a special tomato sauce, you know. My granddad taught me that one. My ma’s pa came straight over from Italy. I’m a quarter, you know, but you’d never be able to tell if I didn’t want you to know,” he revealed, mater-of-factly. “Halve the tomatoes and use a spoon to gut them. All four of ‘em. When we have the pulpy insides we can blend ‘em a little with a whisk and simmer them down in a little bit of wine with the onions and the garlic, ya see?” 

They didn’t have a whisk. But Steve was taking careful mental note, digging a knife of his own---and a spoon----out of the drawer. He worked atop one of the large, now-empty paper bags, diligent, like Bucky had been, about keeping the counter clean. He did as he was told, spooning the insides out and into the saucepan, which sat off of the warming burner, for now. One tomato, and then the next, and then the third, and finally the fourth, each till they were nothing but a thin red skin. They’d save those for later. Once he finished, he took a fork and mashed the pink pulps till they were thinner. Next, the onions. 

Bucky worked the garlic, the flat of the Rogers’ only butcher’s knife pressed to the top of the bulbs to crush them. He had late afternoon sunlight warm across his face, streaming in from the window above the sink. He heard a sniffle off to his left and immediately turned down in the mouth, glancing over at Steve to make sure he was doing okay. Tears ran down his face, his eyes a bit red. He opened his mouth to ask if he was alright and was cut off by another stifle, followed by a prompt “shut up, Buck.” The taller brunette boy relaxed just a tad and he laughed, wondering how he could have completely forgotten that Steve was dicing the onions. The little blond sniffled again and a teardrop hung on his jaw. His eyes were red. Buck chuckled and rested a palm on the corner of the paper bag, sliding it directly in front of him. 

“Here,” he offered. “I’ll do the onions.” 

Steve nodded with a sniffle and wiped at his leaking face with his sleeve. His actual sleeve, having removed both jackets once they’d gotten back from the dock and markets. “Thanks,” he mumbled. 

Bucky worked on dicing and crushing until everything was in order and then dumped it all into the saucepan atop the tomato guts. He moved the pan over to the burner and looked over his shoulder. “You can do cleanup, if that’s better?” he suggested. Steve nodded after stepping away long enough to clear his sinuses and began to dispose of the paper bags. Their bin was beneath the sink, a cupboard. He shut the cabinet door and peeled a strip of tomato skin away from one of the halve shells and popped it in his mouth. It was something that had a filmy texture that wouldn’t dissolve. The flavor could stay on his tongue as long as he wanted until he was ready to either chew it up or spit it out. He put the rest in their fridge---only the bottom half worked; the freezer portion had gone out----and they didn’t have the money to get it fixed or buy a whole new Frigidaire. He leaned with his back against the edge of the counter, arms crossed over his chest as Buck reached into the bottom of the third bag and pulled out the bottle of wine, popping the top with an ease that let Steve know he had done it a few times before. He lifted the bottle a few feet above the saucepan and poured maybe two cups in before setting it aside. He used the spoon Steven had gutted the tomatoes with and stirred the tomato sauce mix around the middle a bit, letting it bubble and simmer and stew together. 

He was quiet, but the air was warm. Steve didn’t know what it was he was thinking about, but he seemed far away. After a while he quietly asked Steve to season the chicken, in salt and pepper, if they had it. He asked for an oven mitt and then opened the oven and bent down to pull the pan from the oven. The bread was a light brown and crisp. He set aside two of the pieces to have as is and then set to crumbling the other two pieces, face suddenly very tired. After he crumbled some of the crispy loaf into a bowl he used the fork Steve had mashed the tomatoes with to lift the chicken breasts into the still-hot glass pan. 

“Cheese,” he stated. He reached in the same bottle he had pulled the wine from and removed a rind of mozzarella from within. He used a knife to chip small pieces away at it, letting them fall onto the chicken, and repeated this motion until tiny creamy white flakes covered the breast surfaces. He asked Steve to pass him the breadcrumb bowl and then poured them all on top. He turned to Steve, an eyebrow raised, and then slowly slid the pan back into the oven. This was the test. 

Steve’s stomach growled audibly, and he blushed, a curse passing over his lips. Bucky snickered. 

“C’mon.” He turned the stove-top burner down and gestured for Steve to lead the way. “We can make use of those couches while we wait.” 

Steve was starving and his feet, and ribcage, hurt like a bitch. 

He consented.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm no chef, but I do have some kitchen common-sense. So here's a simple enough wartime recipe I completely pulled out of thin air.


	6. Chapter 6

Bucky set down the hot tray of Chicken Parmigiana, taking a seat across the table from Steven. The wine bottle, as well as two glasses and a plate for each of them, adorned the table. The sun was down, by now, and the kitchen lights stayed off---Steve insisted, it cut the bills down. Two half-melted candles sat on the table. Bucky was slouched in his chair, knees apart beneath the table. He had his arms crossed over his chest. “Y’know, I’ve never had a candlelit dinner with another bloke before,” he joked lightly, a light smirk on his lips. Steve was flustered, but only lightly so, and just looked down at his hands which were folded in his lap. 

“Yeah, well, Ma and I eat in the dark all the time.” He speared one of the chicken breasts on his fork and moved it on over to his plate. “You get use’ to it after a while.” 

Bucky nodded. He slid the other breast out of the tomato sauce and onto his plate. The breadcrumbs had crisped atop the melted white cheese, and everything smelled delectable. Things were quiet. A little bit tense, but not uncomfortably so. It reminded him a bit of those two weeks last summer that their power had been cut off and they’d dined on the living room's hardwood floor picnic-style. He’d enjoyed that. He slowly straightened up and reached for the wine bottle that sat in the middle of the table. 

“You ever drink?” he asked, glancing up at the younger boy. The candlelight was reflected against the shining gold of his hair. Steve met his eyes. 

“No.” 

Bucky swirled the liquid around in the bottom of the bottle. “Do you want some...?” He maintained eye contact with the Rogers boy as he poured a bit in the bottom of his own glass. Steve straightened his posture and blew out a breath that made his cheeks puff out. 

“I dunno, Buck...” 

“Hey, look,” he raised his butterknife in the air, gesturing as he spoke, “it’s no big deal. Nobody’s making you drink. You’re a good kid, from what I can tell.” 

Steve raised his eyebrows, watching Bucky cut his chicken breast up into pieces, holding the knife in one hand and the fork and the other, as if someone had taught him how to cut proper from a young age. 

“And you aren’t?” 

Bucky looked up. “I don’t know; aren’t I?” 

Steve held his gaze. Bucky had made a fair point. If he could be a good kid and still drink, nothing was stopping Steve from still being a fine gentleman even with a little bit of alcohol in him. He tipped his glass forward. 

“Do you have a toast?” he asked as the brunette poured him a third of a glass. Bucky chuckled, setting the bottle back down. 

“Yes.” He held up his glass, the firelight reflecting in his eyes. The gray dazzled. “Here’s to the funny little things the universe aligns. I decided to skip, you got beat up in an alley-” 

“Almost got beat up in an alley,” Steve corrected him. 

“Right. Almost. You almost got beat up in an alley, and now here we are.” 

Steve’s eyes crinkled a bit in the corners. His lips were well equipped with that playful smirk Bucky had already learned accompanied all his banter. 

They lightly tapped their glasses against one another’s. 

“Thanks for saving my skin back there, Buck,” he murmured genuinely before tipping his glass back, letting the first few drops of alcohol he would ever consume pass over his lips. It was rich, and to his surprise, honestly not that good tasting. But it made his mouth tingle a bit. And his chest tingle a bit. And his mind a little bit fuzzy. But it was just one sip. Bucky smiled, his lips pulling up in the corners. He was soft. 

“No problem, Stevie.” 

Steve looked up, mid-chew on a piece of chicken, and just stared. His heart skipped a little when it beat. Nobody called him “Stevie” except his mom...but something about the way that it rolled off of Bucky’s warm Brooklynite tongue made his shoulders untense and his breaths seem fuller. It hadn’t taken him more than a day and a single swallow of wine to realize he liked Bucky Barnes. A lot.


	7. 1 Year Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boys are no longer in highschool but have graduated and moved on to higher-ed.

“Your ma’s sweet on me, Steven, don’t try an’ deny it.” 

Steve ducked as a wadded up piece of charcoal paper flew past his head. It hit the tile floor behind them with a soft thud. 

“Kaiser’s going to kill you if you keep wasting his art supplies,” Steve retorted, ignoring the statement about his mom as he leaned out of his chair to pick up the crumpled paper. He smoothed it out best he could on the table in front of him. A goofy, now terribly rumpled drawing of their art instructor started back at him. He threw a glance at Barnes and leaned closer a bit, smirking at him. "An who are you kiddin' Barnes? My ma don’t date boys that show no appreciation for the arts,” he sniggered. Bucky took a swing at him. 

“I have plenty appreciation for the arts; have you seen Amelia Bellamy? The breasts on that girl... Picasso couldn’t have done better....” his head was craned round his shoulder to gaze at her where she sat tucked away at a desk on the far end of the classroom. Steven rolled his eyes. 

“Then why don’t you ask her out already and stop ogling her like a horny seventh grader? You’re a college freshman, Buck. Just get it over with; the worst she can do is say no,” he offered, taking an ink pen to the outline of his latest portfolio addition. Bucky whipped around real quick. 

“I can’t Stevie.” 

Steve set his pen down with a touch of exasperation and turned to the handsome brunette. He still wore that damn army jacket of his dad’s. “Why not, Bucky.” He was growing tired of his friend’s ceaseless whining about this girl and that. 

Bucky’s forlorn expression curled upward into a confident grin. 

“B’cause I’m still tryna be your stepdad, remember?” 

Steve slid his chair back and draped himself across the tabletop, head in his arms. A muffled, exaggerated groan in response to Bucky’s words. 

“For the last time, Barnes.” 

“Mr. Rogers!” 

Steve’s head snapped up. Dr. Kaiser was standing at the front of the class, body turned in Steven and James’s direction. His mustache twitched. “What have I told you two about wasting precious class hours with your chitter-chatter. This is a higher-education establishment; if you wish to banter as you do, take it home to your Mum so she can see what of her money is going to waste.” 

Steve’s cheeks pinkened. Out of everybody taking Kaiser’s art course, Steven Rogers had more sketchbooks filled and more works than anybody hung on his walls. Bucky stood up. 

“You know what, I don’t think that’s very fair of you, Doctor.” 

Heads craned, including Amelia Bellamy’s. 

“Stevie works harder than anybody else here. It’s not his damn fault he’s got to put up with me all the time; I don’t even like it here.” 

Steve stared up at him, surprised at the revelation. He didn’t...? 

“I’m a working man; I should be out at the docks making money for my family, but Stevie here convinced me to give college a go. And I did. It was nice an’ all, but if all I’m doing here is getting him in trouble, you can drop me from your course.” He flipped the cover of his own personal sketchbook closed. “Stevie sure as hell isn’t taking your class for granted, and I’m not going to see you wrongfully accuse him of disruption and wastefulness when I’m the class clown, here.” He walked to the front of the class, standing nose-to-nose with their grey-haired professor. He shoved the sketchbook into the older man’s hands. He softened a bit, throwing a look over his shoulder at his best friend. 

“Guys like me don’t deserve second and third chances, Doctor. But this is Steven’s dream, and not everybody gets the privilege. He was lucky enough to be one of the few in this country that does because of how hard his Ma works, and how hard he works. And I’m not going to take that away from him.” 

He backed up a few steps and leaned down to grab his schoolbag from the foot of his chair. He slung it over his shoulder. Steve was blushing again, but this time it was because he hadn’t expected such high praises of himself to be delivered to the entire class. Bucky looked down at Steve with a smile---a genuine, bonafide James Barnes thousand-watt----and then turned his attention to the rest of the class seated behind them. 

“Well,” he saluted, “this is James Barnes, over and out.” 

Dr. Kaiser opened his mouth in protest, but Bucky patted his shoulder on his way to the door. 

“Don’t fret, Doctor K, It's not like I’m wasting my life away; I’m gonna go sweat it off at the docks so I can take Steve’s Ma out to dinner.” 

With a wink he shouldered his way through the Drawing II room door, leaving the class in a fit of giggles one last time.


	8. Chapter 8

Steven gathered up his books. His coursework had ended for the day and he was hoping, like every day, that Bucky would still be waiting out the front gates to walk home with him despite the fact he had, to everyone’s surprise, dropped out of college that very same morning. He tucked his charcoal pencils, his 10-set of crayons, and the two thick sketchbooks he carried into his canvas bag. Other students rustled around him, cleaning up and packing their own supplies as they chatted in excited tones about the upcoming weekend. As he swung the bag over his shoulder a busty raven-haired girl took shy steps to meet him where he stood at his desk. He looked up, hair hung over his forehead. 

Amelia. She blushed and tucked a black curl behind her ear. 

“Hi, Steven...” her voice was timid. It almost reminded him of his mom’s. He straightened up, adjusting the way the bag hung at his hip. He fumbled a bit, having little to no experience with girls aside from what Bucky had forced him into at his YMCA football games and boxing matches. 

“Steve,” he insisted, extending a hand to introduce himself. She politely declined. He guessed college kids didn’t typically handshake in greeting like most adults would have. She smiled. 

“Oh, well I’m sorry, Steve.” 

He nodded a bit. 

“Say, what James said about you earlier was real sweet, and I was just wonderin’ if you think he really meant it...? About skippin’ out on college for good...?” 

Steve had to ponder it. He couldn’t say for sure, but from what he knew about Bucky, it wasn’t in him to make a show about something and then go back on his word. Steve cleared his throat. 

“Yeah, I think he was probably serious. If he ever decided to come back, it wouldn’t be for art. If Buck could have any job in the whole universe, he’d be in Research Sciences, probably for math. He needs something more engaging and technical than this.” 

Amelia frowned. “Oh.” Her lips turned upward after a second of hesitation. “Is he really smart enough for all that?” 

Steve nodded. “Yeah...” he glanced up at her, standing a few inches shorter, and squinted his eyes a little bit, lips parted. “Was there something you wanted me to tell him, or...?” 

Her brown eyes lit up. “Yes! I-I mean. If you would...?” 

Steve nodded, listening intently so he wouldn’t forget to pass it on later. 

“Just tell him we’ll miss him, here, and we enjoyed having him? It must be so great to have someone as big-hearted as him around all the time. I have brothers, but they ain’t like that atall.” 

Steve flushed a bit. “James isn’t my...we’re not family.” 

She faltered, brows knitting at the mistake. “Oh, he’s not your cousin, or something?” 

His ears reddened even further. He cleared his throat. “No.” 

“Huh...” she shrugged and then her whole face lit up again, arms clutching her books to her chest. “Well, do you know where I could go to see him...? If that isn’t weird.” 

Steve couldn’t wait to see the look on Buck’s face when he told him Amelia Bellamy was interested. He shook his head. “No, uh, yeah. He has a game at the YMCA this evening. Every Friday evening while the season lasts, actually...” He glanced up at the clock. She’d held him there with her questions for over fifteen minutes. If Bucky had been waiting for him for the walk home, he wouldn’t be much longer. He shoved his hands deep in his pockets and smiled. “I’ll let him know you asked about him.” 

She nodded, leaning in to plant a thank-you kiss right on Steve’s still-warm cheek. He cleared his throat. “I’ll see you Monday.” 

She echoed back to him in her dulcet-sweet tones and waved, standing on the tips of her toes, books tucked under one arm. He backed out of the door before turning to make his way down the hallway with his head down and his cheeks glowing pink. Whether it was because he had never been kissed on the cheek by a girl, or because Amelia had mistaken him for being blood with Bucky Barnes, which he found increasingly uncomfortable, he didn’t know. 

 

**** 

 

James leaned against the entry gates with his hands deep in his army jacket pockets, one heel grinding into the dirt at his feet. “C’mon, Rogers...” he mumbled, willing Steve to hurry his butt up. Maybe he had an asthma attack. Or maybe he was currently being pinned to the walls by that jerk Thomas Holloway from his Civic Duties class. Maybe... he was starting to worry as more and more possibilities ran through his mind. Damnit, Rogers wouldn’t be able to survive a single day at the institute without him. He was jittery. He pulled his sleeve up to glance down at the hand-me-down watch on his wrist---also his dad’s---and set off to go find the little blond punk just as he spotted Steve’s tiny, familiar frame jogging down the driveway toward him. Bucky let out a brief exhale of relief, meeting him halfway. 

“Damnit, Stevie. I thought for sure someone had made their lunch out of you,” he breathed, a grin stretched across his face. Steve came to a standstill, tipping his head back to catch his breath. He swallowed, brows knit, and exhaled, squinting like he always did when he was thinking about something real hard. 

“Nah... not today.” He walked with Bucky down the stretch of road that led off the school property. “Amelia Bellamy came to talk to me.” 

“Wai’wai’wait.” Bucky reached out to grab his shoulders, stopping him in his tracks. “Amelia Bellamy?” 

Steve looked up at him. 

“I said what I said, Buck. Let go’a me.” 

Bucky dropped his hand and shoved them in his pockets again. They walked on. 

“Well, did she say anything?” 

Steve shrugged, his own hands buried deep in the pockets of his tan suede coat. He hadn’t grown to fit it any better in the year since they’d met. “She asked if I thought you were for real about the school thing. I told her yes and that she could drop by the YMCA tonight if she wanted to see you.” He walked with his eyes on the road. Buck waited. 

“Anything else?” 

“Yeah,” he grumbled. “She thought we were brothers or somethin’. Cousins, maybe. Hell, I don’t know.” He walked on for a moment, silent, before glancing over at Bucky. “...Do you think of me as a brother?” 

Bucky pondered it. “I don’t know. I mean, I have siblings. The dynamic isn’t quite the same. I don’t know what it is about it that’s different, but you’re more to me than that, y’know?” he looked over to see if Steve agreed. The blond let out a soft exhale, shoulders relaxing. He didn’t know what answer he had been looking for, but that one seemed to work. They weren’t stuck together because they had to be, like family. There was no sense of obligation in their relationship. Just a genuine and willing concern for each other. He leaned into Bucky’s side and Buck slung an arm around his shoulders, giving them a squeeze as they made the walk to the Barnes’ residence where they’d prep for the game that evening.


	9. Chapter 9

“Is that the lovely Missus Barnes I see?” Bucky teased, looping an arm around his mother’s waist upon finding her at work in the kitchen. Steve leaned against the door-frame, arms crossed, watching the handsome older boy twirl his mother around the room. She laughed and pushed him away from her, swatting him with the dishtowel before realizing that her other boy (while Steve and Bucky felt nothing like brothers, their mothers both adored the boy that was not theirs) was home, too. She walked over and wrapped an arm around Steve’s shoulders, giving him a squeeze. 

“How’s your Ma, Steve, dear?” she fixed the part in his hair before placing her hands on her waist, hip cocked to one side. Steve smiled. The Barnes home was warm. His place was cozy, but theirs was warm. 

“She’s good, Ma’am.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, head tilted to one side fondly. A lopsided smile graced his lips. Buck kissed his ma’s temple and ducked past Steve to jog toward the hallway where his brother and sisters would be if they were home. He ducked into his room to get on his practice gear so they could head over to the Y. 

Mrs. Barnes smiled. “That’s good. It’s nice to see your face again, Steven. We love having you here. Will you be staying the night?” 

Steve looked over his shoulder in the direction Buck had disappeared. 

“Oh, I don’t know, Mrs. Mr. Barnes doesn’t mind, does he?” 

She hummed softly, leaned against the counter with her arms crossed. “No, sweetie, I don’t think he does. He might be home late, anyhow. He’s had to pull an extra shift tonight.” 

Steve nodded. “Well, in any case, we were just gonna go over to the game and then maybe an afterparty if they have one. You know how Buck is---always dragging me to those social things.” 

She chuckled. “The boy just wants his best friend around; you can’t blame him.” 

“Oh, no Ma’am. I don’t.” He glanced over his shoulder. “We should probably be getting ready, though. Maybe I’ll see you again tonight if that’s alright?” 

She smiled. “Sure; sure. If you boys don’t make it back home tonight I’ll just assume you decided to crash at your place instead, which is fine if James decides he’d rather get out of the house for a bit. He likes the quiet of your place. Here, well,” some high-pitched giggles and the sound of Bucky tackling and twirling one of his baby sisters in the other room echoed through the house, “it gets busy,” she laughed, Bucky and Becca’s ruckus in the other room proving her point. Steve took a few steps out of the doorway and nodded once. 

“Yes Ma’am. Thank you for your hospitality.” 

He turned and wove his way to the set of bedroom doors. Becca’s was open. He knocked on the doorframe. “Knock, knock...?” 

Becca, with her bouncy red curls and delicately upturned nose looked up from her desk, where she was sat on her bed, legs outstretched, a book in her lap, and smiled. “Well hello, Stevie.” 

“Yeah, hello, Stevie,” Bucky mocked, also draped across the bed, on his back, with his head hanging off. His hair was a mess due to the weight of gravity and his cheeks were starting to turn red. Steve rolled his eyes. 

“Good evening, Becca.” He was fond of the Barnes girl. She was the closest to Bucky’s age, at 17, and the closest to his heart. He turned his eyes to Buck. 

“If you wanna get there on time we should leave soon. I gotta swing by the apartment to change into something a lot better than this.” 

Bucky swung upward and turned his body to set his feet on the floor. He eyed him up and down. 

“Yeah, not the most flattering on you.” 

Becca closed her book, slapping her brother’s arm lightly. 

“Jimmy, whadda you know about what’s flattering, anyway?” She stood up, walking over to turn Steve’s collar down. She rested a hand on his chest, flattening the rumpled in his buttonup. “Don’t you ever dress down, Steve? I swear I’ve hardly seen you in anything but a dress-shirt since Jimmy brought you home for the first time.” 

Steve blushed a little. Again, he couldn’t decipher whether it was in response to the physical touch or the way she spoke. He shrugged a little. 

“I don’t have much variety to choose from.” 

Bucky stood from the bed, wrapping an arm around Steve’s shoulders to pull him away from his little sister. 

“Stevie and I are gonna go find him something of mine he can wear. You can go back to reading...whatever that is you’re so invested in.” 

“It’s the Great Gatsby, James. And it’s heartbreakingly beautiful. It’s a love story, you know.” 

“Speaking of love story,” he purred, “Amelia Bellamy is into me. Does he end up getting the girl?” 

She already knew. She was just intuitive that way. 

“No, I don’t think he does.” 

Bucky frowned. “Well, bummer.” 

He tugged at Steve’s sleeve. 

“Let’s go. We’ve gotta get you ready for the game.” 

Steve rolled his eyes. Bucky was the one that needed to get ready for the game. He was the one that was playing, after all. But he wouldn’t turn down a more comfortable change of clothes. He wished Becca a good evening and followed Bucky to his room. 

Buck shut the door behind him. “Do you think Bec likes you?” 

Steve stopped in his tracks, looking up. 

“I don’t know. Wouldn’t you know? Doesn’t she tell you everything?” 

Bucky rifled through his closet. 

“Most things, but I don’t know. You think she’d tell her big bro if she had a crush on his best friend?” 

Steve thought a moment. Shrugged. 

“I think she’s just friendly, Buck.” 

He tossed a shirt over his shoulder. 

“My pants would never fit you, but this shirt probably wouldn’t look too bad with those slacks, huh?” 

Steve picked it up off the bed and held it up. “It’ll work.” He didn’t want to tell Bucky ‘no, the colors are just a little bit off,’ so he sucked it up and rested the shirt on the back of Bucky’s desk chair before slipping the tan suede coat off and draping it on the end of the bed. He reached up to unbutton his shirt as Bucky pulled his own over his head. He stood there, tanned, athletic body in the frame of the closet doorway, and balled up the shirt he had been wearing. He chucked it across the room into his hamper. Steve glanced up at him, carefully undoing the buttons on his shirt from the bottom up. 

“Do you always do that?” Bucky noted, turning away to pull his gray practice tee out of the closet. “Unbutton your shirt from the bottom? You’re supposed to do it from the top.” 

Steve turned even further away, so Bucky couldn’t see him, and switched from the bottom button to the top, unbuttoning it the right way this time. When he was done----it was a lot quicker, he had to give Bucky that much----he slid the fabric off his shoulders, glad the house was warm enough for his thin bones. Bucky had unbuckled his pants and was pulling on his practice shorts, which showed a significant amount of thigh. He kicked his pants into the bottom of the closet and turned around, watching Steve. 

“Go on. Put it on, punk.” 

Steve made a show of rolling his eyes and snatched the olive green shirt up off of the foot of the bed. He pulled it on. It was just a little loose, and now that it was on, the colors didn’t class as much as he thought they would. 

“See?” Bucky smirked, heading to the door with a football in his hand. “It’s not that bad, Stevie.” 

Steve looked over at Buck before he could grab for the doorknob. 

“Mind if I wear your green jacket instead of the suede one? It’ll just look better, I think.” 

“Sure,” Bucky answered, snatching the military jacket up off the top of his dresser to toss it to him from across the room. Steve pulled it on, the rolling up the cuffs of the too-long sleeves as he followed Bucky out the door.


	10. Chapter 10

The game was tied at the end, but Bucky and his guys had managed to get a 2-point conversion after the last touchdown of the game just before the 4th quarter ended. Amelia Bellamy hadn’t showed, and Steve was a bit surprised by it, but Bucky seemed thrilled nonetheless as he jogged off of the field with the team, leather helmet in his hand. He was dripping sweat, the long sleeves hugging his arms, the uniform pants cinched high at his hips. He grabbed up Steve in a hug, which he was rather reluctant about receiving, and laughed in relief. 

“Man, for a second there I thought they had us.” 

Steve slowly leaned away from Bucky enough to separate himself from the sweaty fabric of his football jersey and ran a hand through his hair. 

“You did good. There much you have to do here before we head out? And is there a party, or what?” he asked, strolling back to the locker rooms with Bucky and the rest of the guys. He never went in, but there were plenty of benches outside. Bucky started up the hill, head hanging, bangs dripping sweat. 

“Just have to catch a shower and change, is all. I think there’s a party down the block, but the Y isn’t hosting it. It’s in a gym, too. No house parties. How lame is that?” 

Steve shrugged. “So, what’s the plan?” 

Bucky looked up at the moon, eyes squinted. 

“Your ma home tonight?” 

Steve didn’t know. “Not sure. Depends on if she picked up a late shift. What, you have an idea?” 

“Got any booze stashed?” 

Steve wanted to protest, but it was the weekend and it wouldn’t be the first time they’d had something to drink for the hell of it. 

“Some wine, maybe a champagne?” he shrugged a bit, stopping with Bucky in front of the fieldhouse as the other boys walked in to get cleaned up and changed. Buck nodded. “Good. Your place. You don’t have to wait for me. I’ll meet you there in about half an hour?” 

Steve hated walking home late because on Friday nights it was a common thing for athletes to go out and get drunk, and the more drunken athletes that wondered around, the more likely he was to get beat up in an alley somewhere. Or some girl was. That or worse. The thought made him shudder. He nodded and let Bucky duck into the fieldhouse as he turned to make his way home. As he started toward the street, hands in his pockets, a girl with sleek caramel hair done up in a high ponytail and pinned with a polka-dotted bow caught his eye. He veered away from the sidewalk, made his way over, and called out to her without trying to startle her too much. She jumped a bit, turning around. She looked him over timidly, trying to decipher his intentions, but didn’t seem too wary. 

“Hello...?” 

He cleared his throat. “I was just. Wondering if you wanted someone to walk home with you...?” He was small, but he could hold his own and was more than concerned about making sure his female peers got home safely. She blushed some. 

“Would that...be alright?” 

Steve smiled, flipping his hair off of his forehead. “Of course; I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t mean it.” He joined her on the sidewalk, walking with her in whichever direction she was taking him. It was quiet for a moment. She looked over, cleared her throat, and debated a bit before speaking up. 

“No offense, but you don’t look like you could do much if someone really wanted to hurt me,” she observed. Steve blushed a bit, eyes on his shoes and hands in his pockets. 

“Not really, but hopefully if they see you walkin’ with someone it’ll be enough to get them to leave you alone in the first place.” 

She thought a moment. “...oh. I guess that’s true.” Another pause. “Were you here to watch the game?” 

“Yeah,” he looked up, exhaling cold breaths into the fall air. “Every Friday night. Third row on the left,” he admitted. 

“I come to watch Barnes play,” she confessed softly; “he doesn’t know it though. I’m not sure we’ve ever actually been introduced.” 

Steve had to stop himself from being physically taken aback. He looked over. “You know him, though?” 

“Mmmhm,” her voice was sweet, and her ponytail swished behind her. Her soft cotton skirt, a pale blue with polka dots, rustled as she walked. “We were on the maths team together Junior year. Never really talked, though.” She turned to him. “I’m Flora,” she introduced. “Florence, actually, but....” she trailed off. “It was my mom’s name, too, and after she passed I stopped being able to hear it being called out every day.” 

Steve looked over at her. She was sweet. He cleared his throat. “Steve. Rogers,” he added. “I actually come to watch Barnes play, too.” 

She bunched her brows, not quite understanding what the implications were, if there were any. Her face scrunched up a bit. Steve’s ears turned pink. 

“I went to George Washington, too, but I didn’t meet him till Senior year. Completely by mistake, actually.... You remember how you said I didn’t look like much of a fight?” 

She blushed. And nodded. 

“I was just about to get my ass handed to me in an alley on the way to school. He happened by. He’s a nice guy; we’ve been close since.” 

She nodded quietly, taking it in. She looked over. “Well, this is my street, but tell James I said hello, will you?” her voice was soft. Pleading. Steve nodded. 

“Yes, Miss.” He walked her to the front of her house where they stopped on the sidewalk just in front of her doorstep. She smiled. “Thanks, Steve. Maybe I'll see you next Friday.” 

“Maybe so.” He smiled. A potential friend, he thought. 

She climbed the steps to her door and gave him a small little wave, eyes sparkling in the streetlight. 

“Good luck on your way home, Superman.” 

He blushed and watched her disappear inside. 

He’d have to tell Bucky when he got home. Again.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I won't spoil anything for you, but this is easily the most important chapter thus far.

Bucky came through the front door with his hair still wet, wearing only a wifebeater and some sweatpants. His cheeks were red. 

“Damn, it’s cold out there,” he murmured, forcing the door shut behind him. Steven could hear the wind howling against the iron staircase outside. He glanced up, taking Bucky in. 

“You knew damn well what Brooklyn in November is like when we left your house, and that’s what you packed?” 

He had one eyebrow quirked upward. Bucky kicked his shoes off, ran a hand through his hair, and fell into the armchair in the opposite corner of the room, body going limp. 

“Yeah, well, I didn’t think some punk was gonna steal my jacket after the game.” 

Oh. Right. Steve’s cheeks colored a bit at the realization that it may have actually been his fault. Bucky’s knuckles were white, his cheeks a shade of red. He looked cold. The little blond looked him over. 

“We can go drink in the bathroom with the hot water running if you think the steam would help any. No one’s been home all day; there should be a good hour or two of hot water available if the pipes aren’t frosty.” 

Bucky nodded and stood, the goosebumps raised on his arms. He walked into the kitchen on bare feet, cabinets and cupboard doors slamming as he rifled around in search of the booze they had tucked away. Grumbling, he shuffled back into the livingroom with the bottle in his hand only long enough to let Steve know he was headed to the bathroom. Steve got up from his place on the couch, tucking his sketchbook beneath the pillow he’d had propped behind his back, and followed the taller boy into the room just in the hallway off to the left of the living space. Bucky was sat on the toilet lid, elbows on his knees, back hunched forward in a tired slouch. The bottle hung beside his knee, gripped in his curled left hand. Steve, in boxers and a white T-shirt, having previously gotten ready for the night, took a seat on the edge of the tub and turned the water on, letting it run for a moment as it warmed. He swung his legs up, feet propped on the edge of the tub and his knees pulled upward as he balanced there on the ledge between the cold tile floor and the slowly warming water. A little at a time the air began to thicken and the water ran hot finally. Bucky let a full breath escape puffed lips. Steven debated on bringing up the Florence girl, but he could tell it was one of those nights. Bucky, from time to time, really spent his energy and enjoyed his evenings quiet and melancholy. Steve liked to imagine Bucky as a soldier in the trenches on nights likes these, settling comfortably into his skin again after firing had ceased for the night, sat in the mud with a flask full of something strong and his heart full of something big and empty. He took a long swig from the bottle and passed it to Steve, features void of expression. Steve ran his hand along the inner wall of the tub, letting his fingers trail through water as he tipped his head back, a swallow of strong, bitter red wine passing over his lips and down his throat. He took one more drink before tipping the neck of the bottle in Bucky’s direction to offer it back up again. James’s shoulders visibly untensed and he leaned over to take the bottle back. Steve, admittedly a lightweight when any type of alcohol was involved, was already feeling a buzz, on two swallows of wine, build in the back of his mind. 

Bucky Barnes tipped his head back, guzzling now as he downed one, two, three big swallows before his face angled downward again and the bottle left his lips. He set the bottle on the edge of the sink, grunting a bit as the back of his head hit the wall, shoulders slack. Steve’s ribcage filled with warmth as the burning water swirling around his fingertips sent a rush up his arm into the very hollows of his chest cavity, making the buzz in his head a little bit louder and the sleep in his bones a little bit heavier. He could fall asleep like this, he bet, if not for the half-filled tub of burning water he ran the risk of falling into should he do so. He yawned and moved from the far end of the tub to sit on the middle of the siding, where there was no wall-support he could lean against and be tempted to sleep by. His knee just lightly rested against Bucky’s, now. The older boy had the drink in his hand once again, every movement that brought the bottle upward to his lips languid and relaxed. Steve sat hunched on the edge of the tub, both hands gripping the ceramic sides, now, rolling his shoulders as his hair fell across his forehead. Between the sound of running water, the thick steam billowing from the bath faucet, and the earthly wine they passed around, the room was tired and heavy in a warm, inhibited way that slowly melted away the tension that had built itself up in both boys’ shoulders throughout the day. 

Bucky spoke, finally, seeming much more relaxed, now, and maybe the slightest bit affected. “Your ma would kill us if she knew we were letting the water run like that,” he murmured, head tipped back against the wall. Steve nodded, a deep yawn filling his lungs as his head bobbed up and down in agreement. He thought a moment. 

“Maybe not,” he mused, considering the alternative. “She likes you. I don’t think she’d see the harm in running the water a bit once you’ come in from the cold.” His back was an exaggerated curve, whole body slumped forward, head heavy from the atmosphere. Bucky chuckled, sitting up from against the wall, propping his elbows on his knees again as he slumped forward in a way that made the curve of his body mimic the same curve Steve’s took. 

“Right,” he grinned, loose and lackadaisical. He dropped his head, letting his own hair hang in his face, the two crowns of their skulls now a mere half foot apart, soaking in the warm air together. Bucky’s low tenor broke through the steam again with a murmur. “I’m sure glad you came to the game tonight, Steve.” He lifted his eyes a bit, just so he could see the miniature frame of the blond perched on the ceramic tub-side perpendicular to him. Steve chin tipped upward in the slightest as he raised his gaze, too, looking up at the soft nose and the dark hair of the boy beside him through the blond of his bangs. The blue of Steve’s eyes flickered over him, wondering what about tonight had earned him a thanks that all the other nights hadn’t. He didn’t recall having done anything out of their regular routine. He inhaled deeply, followed by a sharp exhale, and nodded. 

“’Course, Buck. You know I’d always be there if you wanted me to.” His voice was soft, and genuine. 

James took in a deep breath and leaned a bit of the way over to rest his forehead against Steve’s. Just quiet, close companionship. A light amount of Bucky’s weight rested against Steve as his body remained slouched forward, the only point of support that kept him upright being the place where his forehead met the blond’s. Their eyes were closed. Steve could feel every inhale and exhale his friend took, the two of their lungs’ eventually filling and deflating in tandem as their breaths naturally synced up. It was warm. The room was warm, and sleep hung thick in the air around them. 

Bucky’s fingers lifted, slowly curling against the small blond boy’s jaw. His fingertips were soft, grazing the curve of his face with a lightness that defied the heaviness of the room. A soft exhale left the boy’s lips and his jaw was tilting, suddenly, leaning into the warm and praising fingertips of the brunette that had reached out to touch him. A thumb brushed skin, slow, and deliberate, the most comforting thing Steve had ever felt in all his years, and the smaller boy was falling into him, now, his shoulders slumping closer, cheek pressing firmer into the palm of his hand. His fingertips curled against Steven’s dewy cheeks, both hands now framing the soft, light curves of his face, pulling him closer until their lips were meeting and their exhales were each other’s inhales and they were no longer tasting the wine from the bottle but from each other’s lips. 

The fingers of Steve’s right hand lighted high at his side, almost afraid to grip the fabric though Bucky was leaning into him, now, sucking his upper lip softly, fingers curled against his cheeks save for his thumbs which brushed lightly along the undersides of his jaw. He finally felt it, Steve’s fingers present high on his side just for a moment, and then on the outside of his upper arm, fingertips pressing into the sinew at the curve of his shoulder and gripping him closer, but gently. Their lips parted briefly with exhales as they shifted to kiss the lip opposite the one they had started on, Steve lightly fitting the bow of Buck’s top lip between both his as the older boy’s mouth closed softly around Steven’s bottom one. Somewhere, low, in the pit of his stomach, Steve was warm, and with Bucky’s hands pulling him closer by his sides, now, he was shifting away from the edge of the tub and onto his lap, curled there against the curve of a much larger body. 

Their bodies rolled softly in natural, fluid rhythms as they exhaled and sighed against each other’s mouths, small hands curled around strong shoulders and firm hands wrapped gently around slim hips. Bucky’s heart was racing with excitement but his lungs were tiring, and his head was getting light, and all too soon Steven’s lips were breaking from his and he could breathe again. The damp air that now rushing to fill his lungs was cold in comparison to Stevie’s lips, and his head was spinning, but Steven’s nose was at his jaw----the little bend at the bridge resting so softly against his skin----and then the blond’s lips were at his neck and Bucky could breathe again, moaning softly enough that it could barely be heard as Steven’s warm and dewy mouth moved languidly against his skin. 

The room was warm. His neck was warm, and Steven’s mouth as warm, and the sounds he could no longer control that were escaping his lips were warm, but everything inside of him----everything alive and beating deep inside of his chest-----was so much warmer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to give a thank you to all of my readers and to those of you who may have recommended this work to others; I wouldn't have the motivation to update without you guys. Hopefully it just gets better from here on out.


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